


I will Follow You into the Ocean with Cinderblocks tied to my Ankles

by lil_pianissimo



Category: Durarara!!
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Ambiguous/Open Ending, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Izaya Being Izaya (Durarara!!), Light Angst, M/M, Morally Ambiguous Character, No Smut, Oneshot, Reader-Insert, Stockholm Syndrome, Unhealthy Relationships, no happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-18 00:40:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29234676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lil_pianissimo/pseuds/lil_pianissimo
Summary: Being with Izaya was like walking blindly into a pit of snakes, jumping off of a cliff you couldn’t see the bottom to.“Swim!” You imagine he would say, as you walked into the ocean with cinderblock shoes.It was dangerous, he was dangerous, he was danger, but it was thrilling.So, you stayed.
Relationships: Orihara Izaya/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16





	I will Follow You into the Ocean with Cinderblocks tied to my Ankles

**Author's Note:**

> For anybody who reads my other works...I AM SO SORRY. I've been gone for like a year, but I've been so uninspired. So depressed, so sad, so anxious, stressed; it's just been hard. I hope this short one-shot makes up for it, and I'll try to get back to the others soon.
> 
> This is in 2nd person and purposefully ambiguous in terms of the reader's gender. Male? Great. Girl? Incredible. Neither? Beautiful. I imagine Izaya doesn't give a shit, but be warned. This is not a soft, sugary, tooth-rotting, sweet story of you changing Izaya. No. This is a realistic interpretation of a REAL relationship with the informant. We, as a society, need to stop pretending that Izaya isn't a dick, because he IS. Read if you like to be hurt.

You knew that you were in a bad situation. You weren’t stupid, you swear you had more sense than this. After all the stories, after all the events, the articles, the lessons, the experiences, yet you still found yourself in this toxic relationship. This horrible, bittersweet, destructive, poisonous relationship. To call it a romance is a joke, a desperate affair, would be more fitting.

The man you were with was hardly a man at all. A snake, maybe, and definitely a monster. A beguiling, devious, passive-aggressive criminal in the underground. You’re convinced he has no moral, hell, you doubt he would even know the definition of the word.

“It is the difference between right and wrong, but how does one truly know where that line is drawn?” He would say. “Humanity’s social construct is exactly that: constructed. We are spoon-fed specific expectations, when it’s all completely fabricated! No humans’ morality is completely pure, or true. It’s so fragile, which is why you are all so interesting!”

At least that’s what you think he would say.

It’s disgusting. The idea that you have been in such close proximity with this demon that you can hear his voice in your head…but you liked that didn’t you?  
His personality was trash seeped in acid, anxious bile, the roadkill on the side of the road that the no one would touch, but that must make you the buzzard if you kept coming back. Correction: you haven’t come back, you never left. You never even tried.

And it was because of his voice. It was saccharine and coy (fake). When he spoke to you, no, that wasn’t right, down to you, it made you feel small. The intensity of that plastered smiled mixed with the pin-prick sharpness of his venomous tongue made you ill; it gave you chills. Yet, you stay.

He’s handsome too. If you were superficial and cared only for looks he would be the perfect specimen. Ebony-black hair (soft to the touch), his jaw was as sharp as bread dough; not at all threatening. He was lanky, borderline boney, if it weren’t for his crimson demon eyes, he wouldn’t be so fearsome.

Despite his body, his eyes were as sharp as knives, he was stronger than he looked, in fact, he’s able to pin someone two times his weight against whatever surface he could find. You know, you’ve seen it; you’ve been the weight against the wall.

He was toxic, he was the very definition of toxicity and you knew, you were warned, yet here you are. In the very situation you were told not to get in; involved with the very person you were told not to be involved with.

Being with Izaya was like walking blindly into a pit of snakes, jumping off of a cliff you couldn’t see the bottom to. 

“Swim!” You imagine he would say, as you walked into the ocean with cinderblock shoes.

It was dangerous, he was dangerous, he was danger, but it was thrilling.

You knew it was a lie, that he didn’t mean it; he played every naive, young, fresh meat like this, but he treated you like somebody. He made you feel wanted in a world where you were forgotten. Where you were the pencil in a box of pens, the duck in a pond of beautiful, majestic swans; you were unwanted, unimportant.

But Izaya sought after the pencil in the pens, was fascinated by the bud amongst the flowers. After all, deflowering was a specialty of his. You would know.  
His touch was hot, his kiss was warm; you had never experienced such a thing before, and it hurt to know the reality of your situation. You crave what he gives you, the warmth that pulls in the pit of your stomach, the swelling of your heart as he asks you what you want, what form of physical affection suits your fancy at any given moment. You love him even when he doesn’t because he can’t. He plays with you like a doll, and that’s all you are: a puppet on one of his many strings.

You asked him why he lets you stay. Why you sleep in his bed and seen him in his most vulnerable.  
“Oh, [Insert name]-chan,” he begins in the way he always does when you prod him in his odd endeavors. “If you want me to say “I love you”, you are sorely mistaken. I love your reactions, I love seeing what you would do,” and then he smiles, “but I don’t love you.”

You hate it. You hate him.

He waves a hand, “You can leave whenever you want. I’m not forcing you to stay. If you aren’t satisfied, there’s the door.”

That’s where he gets you. He makes you feel like you have a choice, and you do, but you don’t. It’s a double-edged sword, a two-way addiction: he’s obsessed with pulling apart your brain, and you’re obsessed with him. And that phrasing is important, and he knew it. You knew he knew. You weren’t happy, you knew you weren’t happy, and he knew it too, but you were very, very satisfied, and so was he. So, you stay.

After all, it wasn’t so hard to swim with weights tying you down. At least he wasn’t pulling you under, he just tied the knots.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Let me know your thoughts. Believe it or not, I read all of the comments and see all of the kudos! I really appreciate the support even when you don't know it. :) You are validated.


End file.
